It's weird to think about how much he shaped me into the woman I am today. I don't know if I am grateful or indifferent or pained. Perhaps, I am all of those things. Or maybe none at all. I was pushed. I became a better kid, for a time. The routine of taking care of myself was helpful. I was taught how to earn things rather than expect them. So many lessons were given to me and I was able to use them. To be better. I can't even say how much of it was my idea or just that I wanted to please someone who paid attention to me. I can't say, now. It was more likely that it wasn't my idea at all.
For a few summers, I had been roped into playing softball with my step-sister and I can't even say if I was cranky or enjoyed it. I think at first, I probably liked it. But, in the last season I played, I think I was just mentally unstable. I didn't know how to trust anyone. I had been wiped clean of all things I understood. A bond had been started, nurtured, and then ripped away. I really enjoyed painting. Watercolors, especially. I should say, I do enjoy painting with watercolors. Or, I try to. I get to painting and I can only do it for so long, maybe 5-10 minutes before I am brought back to the day that hands slid up my shirt from behind me. When I had found the power inside of myself and said, "no" out loud. He immediately sped off in his pick up, drunk. When I was convinced, easily, that surprising mom with dinner of boxed macaroni and cheese would be a kind thing to do, and taught the best way to do it, the Sopranos said so, and again, hands were found in places they were not welcome. I stood there, frigid. "Fine, I won't tickle you anymore." It was a lash of his tongue but he was surprised by my response. "Good." It wasn't long before I was on a "play date" at a friend of my mom's. Me, being the "weird girl" staring off into space, wondering how these two boys were even remotely interesting talking about basketball constantly, when the phone rang. It was my mom. She said he was leaving. He wanted to stop by and say goodbye. I still don't understand why my mom wasn't there for that. I didn't want to see him. "Good." I said. I wanted him to burst into flames. I wanted a giant meteor to fall from the sky while he was playing golf in his stupid white New Balances and I wanted his body to be so squished that any traces of him ceased to exist. He drove over in his maroon Toyota pick up truck, black trash bags of his belongings in the bed. He explained he was leaving. I stared at the grass. He said he wanted to be in my life but, he couldn't anymore. I wasn't sure if I should start rejoicing until after he left or begin immediately. He asked for a hug. I said "Okay." But, I didn't want to. I just felt like it was the nice thing to do. To let him hug me goodbye. I wanted to puke. I was a tree. Unmoving. Solid. Grounded. I stood there with my limbs, stoic. He got in his truck and drove off. My heart began to pump blood again. I felt myself sigh, excited. He was gone. I grinned, showing all my teeth. The boys didn't understand why and I didn't explain. They asked. I didn't say. I just said, I'm glad he's gone. I'm fine. I wanted to cry. I wanted to laugh. I was visibly contradicted. They called me weird and went back to their computer game. I sat on the couch looking at the books on their shelf, all about exercising and nutrition. I couldn't find a thing I would read as I scanned. I felt free. And empty. I choked back tears.
I didn't do well after that. I lashed out. A lot. I dove into school but quickly my mind would wander back to those memories. Good and bad. Mostly bad at that time. I remember there was a quiz the next morning in seventh grade. I sat in the theatre style room, an old science lab that was like a college lecture hall. The tables were a solid, cold top. The quiz in homeroom was a quick one. I stared at the paper. Unsure of what to write. My heart was racing. I realized, not many people were next to me or behind me. She had spread us out so far apart. I felt empty. Alone. I didn't know how to process the things that had just happened. I stared. I wanted the memory to fade. I focused on the questions. I didn't want to fail. I wouldn't get my allowance if I failed. I needed to keep my grades up. I thought about how my body was tense. How I wasn't relaxed. I was visibly scared. I didn't want what happened to happen. I could tell his intentions. I don't know how I could tell you I knew that it wasn't okay. There was something about the way he was laying behind me on the couch while watching Hey Arnold, that just wasn't quite innocent. Maybe, now, as an adult, I could tell you. But, as a child with that perspective. I am just not sure. But, my legs were as tight as I could make them. He pried them apart anyway. I didn't want him to touch me. I didn't want him to put his face down there. I didn't want any of it. I stared at the cartoon and wondered when it would end. I just wanted him to go away. Afterward, he asked me if I liked it. I said no. He threw my underwear at me, Winnie the Pooh, and said to meet him in the garage. I felt like I was in trouble. I put my clothes back on. I went to the bathroom. I could still feel the hair from his mustache on me. I felt empty. I didn't understand any of it. Why did he do that? Why did he think that was okay? I was a child. I was a smart child. I knew that was not okay. I knew what he had just attempted to do. I hung my head and went out to the garage. He was smoking a cigarette. He had claimed a spot for himself in one of the two old recliners that I think were his moms, before she passed away. There was a table between them with an ashtray. I pulled my knees up to my chin and hugged them for dear life. He asked me questions. I answered them. I don't know what he was trying to say but, ultimately, he said he would tell my mom what happened. He said he wouldn't touch me again. I didn't believe him. None of it. Not a word. I didn't know what to say. I just said, "okay."
Years later, I was in my bedroom. I was a teenager. I think I was dating a jerk. The phone rang. I answered. He was on the other line. He asked for my mom. I think he thought I was my sister. He didn't act like he recognized my voice. I remember I told my mom he was on the phone. I remember feeling the weight in my body. I was frozen. I hung up the phone when she picked up downstairs. He wanted her name off his truck title. Or something like that. I think he might have tried to call and get money from her. Maybe that time, maybe another. She changed the home number. We changed cell numbers. He called and asked my grandmother for our new phone number. He wanted a reference to work as a janitor for a school, or something like that. I said, "no fucking way." I don't know if she gave it out or not. I really hope she didn't. I told her what happened. Maybe not the details. But, she knew he shouldn't be around children.
I remember the praise my mom gave me when she thanked me for being so calm on the phone later in the emergency room. The thud on the floor, we heard earlier while watching Jeopardy, was him passed out in the hallway. We looked at each other and shrugged. I think we both thought he knocked over a glass in the bedroom. While going up the stairs for bed, my mother shrieked. I saw him facedown on the carpet, halfway out of their bedroom. He was unresponsive. My mom was rambling, trying to make sense of it. She was hysterical, upset, and justifying how much she had seen him drinking that night. I walked down the stairs and called 911. I answered the questions. Calmly. I was dead inside. The EMTs that arrived put him in the ambulance and my mom followed behind with me in tow. I waited in the hallway, on a school night, for his test results to come back. For their adult conversation to conclude. I felt nothing for him. I was scared about how much I wanted him to die. I felt scared that I had that much anger inside of me that I wanted them to come out and say he died of alcohol poisoning. My mom reassured me he would be okay. Great. He just drank too much. Awesome.
I wonder, now, as an adult, dealing with trauma, was I a special case? Did he have some sort of fetish for trying to fall in love with younger girls? Was it all an act? Designed to just get what he wanted? Did he ever actually truly love me, as a father figure could? I suppose these don't need answered. The fact I ask them even makes me wonder why I want to know. It doesn't change what he did. He manipulated a child, me, to trust him. Then he touched my privates without consent. I was twelve. I didn't get really get my period for another year or two. He stole a part of me that I can never get back. He took it without consent. In fact, I was honest. I said, "no." I said, "I don't like that." When he said he wouldn't do it again, I said, "good. That's sexual harassment." Thanks to some program in middle school that talked about sexual harassment, I totally understood that it wasn't okay and I was allowed to say it wasn't okay. I was allowed to say, "NO." It didn't help me when it came to it happening to me. It didn't stop it from happening. Nothing was going to stop that. The poor judgment was made. All around. I can't take the blame. I was twelve. Even a smart twelve year old still can't take the blame.
I have a good reason why I asked my ex not to come up behind me while I was cooking. I have a good reason why when he never respected my requests, that I asked him to leave. I have a good reason to appreciate a man who wouldn't try to touch me sexually without first kissing me. I have a good reason why I felt slightly suicidal after being with a man who wanted to go down on me all the time. I have a good reason why I let him do it. I have a good reason why I began to enjoy it. I have a good reason why he could try for hours and I still won't reach any conclusion. I have a good reason why I had a hard time reaching climax more than a handful of times over a period of a year. I was healing. I was replacing the bad memories with solid ones. Ones I can count on. I have a good reason why if you ask any of my exes, they'll tell you I would politely ask them not to do that. I, understandably, don't trust easily. I have a good reason why I never trusted my ex. I have a good reason why I never respected him. I have a good reason why I let a man spoon the adult me on the couch while watching tv and initiate touching, without words, without kissing. I froze slightly, and he understood. He stopped. He didn't initiate again. He only continued when I made it clear, when I moved his hand back, when I invited him to continue. I did that all for a reason. I wanted to heal. I wanted it to be consent. I wanted to change the memory for myself. To have a different outcome. Stoping it didn't help. So, I consented, as an adult instead. It helped. Trauma isn't easy. It echos in my life daily. I opened up to my step-sister first. We shared memories. I trusted her. I opened up to her. I told my second boyfriend. He didn't help my trauma. He just made me feel more crazy. I told my next boyfriend. He was kind. I didn't know what to do. I screamed it at my mom while she was dropping me off at school for senior year. She cried. I cried. I told my best friend. She cried. She shared memories. I told my sister. She shared memories. We stared and drove around in her Honda. I told my ex. He shared memories. I cried. I told three therapists. The more I speak the words, the easier it is to heal. I only hope that someone finds the courage, as I did, to talk about it. To speak to close friends. To open up about the pain it causes. I will never get rid of those memories. I'll never be able to go back and change anything. I just grew around it.
For a few summers, I had been roped into playing softball with my step-sister and I can't even say if I was cranky or enjoyed it. I think at first, I probably liked it. But, in the last season I played, I think I was just mentally unstable. I didn't know how to trust anyone. I had been wiped clean of all things I understood. A bond had been started, nurtured, and then ripped away. I really enjoyed painting. Watercolors, especially. I should say, I do enjoy painting with watercolors. Or, I try to. I get to painting and I can only do it for so long, maybe 5-10 minutes before I am brought back to the day that hands slid up my shirt from behind me. When I had found the power inside of myself and said, "no" out loud. He immediately sped off in his pick up, drunk. When I was convinced, easily, that surprising mom with dinner of boxed macaroni and cheese would be a kind thing to do, and taught the best way to do it, the Sopranos said so, and again, hands were found in places they were not welcome. I stood there, frigid. "Fine, I won't tickle you anymore." It was a lash of his tongue but he was surprised by my response. "Good." It wasn't long before I was on a "play date" at a friend of my mom's. Me, being the "weird girl" staring off into space, wondering how these two boys were even remotely interesting talking about basketball constantly, when the phone rang. It was my mom. She said he was leaving. He wanted to stop by and say goodbye. I still don't understand why my mom wasn't there for that. I didn't want to see him. "Good." I said. I wanted him to burst into flames. I wanted a giant meteor to fall from the sky while he was playing golf in his stupid white New Balances and I wanted his body to be so squished that any traces of him ceased to exist. He drove over in his maroon Toyota pick up truck, black trash bags of his belongings in the bed. He explained he was leaving. I stared at the grass. He said he wanted to be in my life but, he couldn't anymore. I wasn't sure if I should start rejoicing until after he left or begin immediately. He asked for a hug. I said "Okay." But, I didn't want to. I just felt like it was the nice thing to do. To let him hug me goodbye. I wanted to puke. I was a tree. Unmoving. Solid. Grounded. I stood there with my limbs, stoic. He got in his truck and drove off. My heart began to pump blood again. I felt myself sigh, excited. He was gone. I grinned, showing all my teeth. The boys didn't understand why and I didn't explain. They asked. I didn't say. I just said, I'm glad he's gone. I'm fine. I wanted to cry. I wanted to laugh. I was visibly contradicted. They called me weird and went back to their computer game. I sat on the couch looking at the books on their shelf, all about exercising and nutrition. I couldn't find a thing I would read as I scanned. I felt free. And empty. I choked back tears.
I didn't do well after that. I lashed out. A lot. I dove into school but quickly my mind would wander back to those memories. Good and bad. Mostly bad at that time. I remember there was a quiz the next morning in seventh grade. I sat in the theatre style room, an old science lab that was like a college lecture hall. The tables were a solid, cold top. The quiz in homeroom was a quick one. I stared at the paper. Unsure of what to write. My heart was racing. I realized, not many people were next to me or behind me. She had spread us out so far apart. I felt empty. Alone. I didn't know how to process the things that had just happened. I stared. I wanted the memory to fade. I focused on the questions. I didn't want to fail. I wouldn't get my allowance if I failed. I needed to keep my grades up. I thought about how my body was tense. How I wasn't relaxed. I was visibly scared. I didn't want what happened to happen. I could tell his intentions. I don't know how I could tell you I knew that it wasn't okay. There was something about the way he was laying behind me on the couch while watching Hey Arnold, that just wasn't quite innocent. Maybe, now, as an adult, I could tell you. But, as a child with that perspective. I am just not sure. But, my legs were as tight as I could make them. He pried them apart anyway. I didn't want him to touch me. I didn't want him to put his face down there. I didn't want any of it. I stared at the cartoon and wondered when it would end. I just wanted him to go away. Afterward, he asked me if I liked it. I said no. He threw my underwear at me, Winnie the Pooh, and said to meet him in the garage. I felt like I was in trouble. I put my clothes back on. I went to the bathroom. I could still feel the hair from his mustache on me. I felt empty. I didn't understand any of it. Why did he do that? Why did he think that was okay? I was a child. I was a smart child. I knew that was not okay. I knew what he had just attempted to do. I hung my head and went out to the garage. He was smoking a cigarette. He had claimed a spot for himself in one of the two old recliners that I think were his moms, before she passed away. There was a table between them with an ashtray. I pulled my knees up to my chin and hugged them for dear life. He asked me questions. I answered them. I don't know what he was trying to say but, ultimately, he said he would tell my mom what happened. He said he wouldn't touch me again. I didn't believe him. None of it. Not a word. I didn't know what to say. I just said, "okay."
Years later, I was in my bedroom. I was a teenager. I think I was dating a jerk. The phone rang. I answered. He was on the other line. He asked for my mom. I think he thought I was my sister. He didn't act like he recognized my voice. I remember I told my mom he was on the phone. I remember feeling the weight in my body. I was frozen. I hung up the phone when she picked up downstairs. He wanted her name off his truck title. Or something like that. I think he might have tried to call and get money from her. Maybe that time, maybe another. She changed the home number. We changed cell numbers. He called and asked my grandmother for our new phone number. He wanted a reference to work as a janitor for a school, or something like that. I said, "no fucking way." I don't know if she gave it out or not. I really hope she didn't. I told her what happened. Maybe not the details. But, she knew he shouldn't be around children.
I remember the praise my mom gave me when she thanked me for being so calm on the phone later in the emergency room. The thud on the floor, we heard earlier while watching Jeopardy, was him passed out in the hallway. We looked at each other and shrugged. I think we both thought he knocked over a glass in the bedroom. While going up the stairs for bed, my mother shrieked. I saw him facedown on the carpet, halfway out of their bedroom. He was unresponsive. My mom was rambling, trying to make sense of it. She was hysterical, upset, and justifying how much she had seen him drinking that night. I walked down the stairs and called 911. I answered the questions. Calmly. I was dead inside. The EMTs that arrived put him in the ambulance and my mom followed behind with me in tow. I waited in the hallway, on a school night, for his test results to come back. For their adult conversation to conclude. I felt nothing for him. I was scared about how much I wanted him to die. I felt scared that I had that much anger inside of me that I wanted them to come out and say he died of alcohol poisoning. My mom reassured me he would be okay. Great. He just drank too much. Awesome.
I wonder, now, as an adult, dealing with trauma, was I a special case? Did he have some sort of fetish for trying to fall in love with younger girls? Was it all an act? Designed to just get what he wanted? Did he ever actually truly love me, as a father figure could? I suppose these don't need answered. The fact I ask them even makes me wonder why I want to know. It doesn't change what he did. He manipulated a child, me, to trust him. Then he touched my privates without consent. I was twelve. I didn't get really get my period for another year or two. He stole a part of me that I can never get back. He took it without consent. In fact, I was honest. I said, "no." I said, "I don't like that." When he said he wouldn't do it again, I said, "good. That's sexual harassment." Thanks to some program in middle school that talked about sexual harassment, I totally understood that it wasn't okay and I was allowed to say it wasn't okay. I was allowed to say, "NO." It didn't help me when it came to it happening to me. It didn't stop it from happening. Nothing was going to stop that. The poor judgment was made. All around. I can't take the blame. I was twelve. Even a smart twelve year old still can't take the blame.
I have a good reason why I asked my ex not to come up behind me while I was cooking. I have a good reason why when he never respected my requests, that I asked him to leave. I have a good reason to appreciate a man who wouldn't try to touch me sexually without first kissing me. I have a good reason why I felt slightly suicidal after being with a man who wanted to go down on me all the time. I have a good reason why I let him do it. I have a good reason why I began to enjoy it. I have a good reason why he could try for hours and I still won't reach any conclusion. I have a good reason why I had a hard time reaching climax more than a handful of times over a period of a year. I was healing. I was replacing the bad memories with solid ones. Ones I can count on. I have a good reason why if you ask any of my exes, they'll tell you I would politely ask them not to do that. I, understandably, don't trust easily. I have a good reason why I never trusted my ex. I have a good reason why I never respected him. I have a good reason why I let a man spoon the adult me on the couch while watching tv and initiate touching, without words, without kissing. I froze slightly, and he understood. He stopped. He didn't initiate again. He only continued when I made it clear, when I moved his hand back, when I invited him to continue. I did that all for a reason. I wanted to heal. I wanted it to be consent. I wanted to change the memory for myself. To have a different outcome. Stoping it didn't help. So, I consented, as an adult instead. It helped. Trauma isn't easy. It echos in my life daily. I opened up to my step-sister first. We shared memories. I trusted her. I opened up to her. I told my second boyfriend. He didn't help my trauma. He just made me feel more crazy. I told my next boyfriend. He was kind. I didn't know what to do. I screamed it at my mom while she was dropping me off at school for senior year. She cried. I cried. I told my best friend. She cried. She shared memories. I told my sister. She shared memories. We stared and drove around in her Honda. I told my ex. He shared memories. I cried. I told three therapists. The more I speak the words, the easier it is to heal. I only hope that someone finds the courage, as I did, to talk about it. To speak to close friends. To open up about the pain it causes. I will never get rid of those memories. I'll never be able to go back and change anything. I just grew around it.
Comments
Post a Comment